She & Demonoid in His Native Habitat

Demonoid seemed always ready for anything. When she rang about the lice in the skidrow dimehaunts, he was just becoming altogether aligned in the brainwave vortex. Somewhere down the line, she looked back and considered this, for sure, a turning point.

Meanwhile, the red apples were arrayed & counted out. The apple-mazes were part of the festivities of each eventide (daylight, on this plane, like in the gas torus, lasted around 500 earth-hours, and night a full 200), and everything had to be just so, otherwise there could be incursions of mosquitoes through spontaneous portals opening; it was, on balance, best to allow deliberate portals, only.

Rebalancing the formula of the incantation she had been honing was tricky. The ink kept separating and floating off the page; the freedmen of the Lab Mice said it gave them brain static, sometimes even headaches. “In time, we fall in to the Real,” she recalled….

Meeting up by the Spire of Vines, they greeted & chattered. Setting off for the Lobe of Nebulous Intransigence, like two peas in a pod, they took hand in hand and debated which planets & species & communities they would sing to whence the Dream Time….